


small treasures

by malpaislegate



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Fluff, Light Flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:20:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22177696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malpaislegate/pseuds/malpaislegate
Summary: You’ve been working as a waitress at a small diner for a few months. With its greasy floors, neon signs and cheap food, it’s no wonder that it’s popular in this part of Gotham. You were always cheery and polite, even if the vast majority of the locals ignored your greetings and gave meager tips (if they gave any at all). There were a few exceptions, though. And one of your favorite customers was Arthur. He’d always have a cup of coffee, a cigarette and a smile for you. One day, you decide to give him a small gift.
Relationships: Arthur Fleck/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 56





	small treasures

**Author's Note:**

> My first time writing for this fandom. This is extremely self-indulgent. I’m going through a tough time, and right now writing gives me a purpose. Expect a few grammar mistakes because English is not my first language and it’s been a while since I last wrote something. Anyway, hope you guys enjoy.

Arthur walked into the small corner diner, away from the cold streets of Gotham. After removing his coat, the usual sight of the greasy floors, bad-mannered customers and cheap food welcomed him. His eyes searched for a moment until he spots you picking up orders from a table near the back. Your gaze meets his and you greet him with a smile and a small wave. He smiles back and takes his usual seat by the windows. Lulled by conversations around him and watching the raindrops fall on the window, Arthur almost drifts off; the weariness of the day catching up to him.

“And how are you on this fine evening, Arthur?” You arrived at his table, already pouring him his usual cup of coffee.

He startled at first but then offered you a timid smile.

“Hi, Y/N. I’m doing okay. You?” He thanked you for the coffee and took a sip.

“Aside from the fact that my feet are killing me and that there was a baby here crying non-stop for almost one hour and a half, I’m good. You’re having the usual?” You asked, already taking the notepad out of your apron.

“Yes, please.” He always makes sure to mind his manners, even more so when talking to you. Having someone treat him with respect and kindness makes him want to be the most polite possible.

“Alrighty.” You wink at him before leaving to refill another customer’s drink. Arthur observes you chatting with the other customers for a moment before taking his journal out of the bag. He proceeded with the tedious task of writing about his day. The best part of it was coming here. Even though the food was cheap, he still had to carefully set aside some of his meager salaries to be able to come here often as he did. As long as he could afford the bills, it was fine. Five minutes or so later, you arrived with his plate of bacon, eggs, and toast. As soon as he saw you approaching, Arthur slammed the journal shut. He didn’t want you to see or read something you shouldn’t and then realize how much of a weirdo he was. After refilling his coffee, you said:

“Lemme know if you need anything else, okay? I really wish we could chat a little, but tonight’s a bit crowded because of the rain.” He noticed the way your lips pouted a little.

“It’s okay. D-don’t want you to get in trouble, anyway.” He attempted to smile in what he hoped to be a reassuring manner but feared to look too awkward.

“Getting in trouble with an angel like you? That seems impossible, Arthur.” You smiled, and Arthur felt himself blush. He immediately broke eye contact, his gaze desperate to fixate anywhere but you. But he can’t help the tiny smile who escaped his lips. Before he could recover and think of an answer, you left to greet a couple who just walked in. Arthur barely tasted his meal, the moment you called him an angel replaying over and over in his mind. He really wished he could be the person you think he is. He hoped that you never find out how fucked up he actually is. Because finally he has someone who likes to laugh with him, not at him.

The rest of his dinner went by in a blur. As usual, he left almost half of his meal untouched. You stopped by to take the dishes away and fetch the check. After paying, Arthur started putting away his journal and pen while waiting for you to come back.

You came back with his change and a small bundle that you placed on the table.

"This may be silly since you probably don't remember but I told you once that I dream of having my own bakery someday and...Well, I was testing this brownie recipe and thought that maybe you'd like to try it..." You laughed awkwardly and adjusted your hair.

He did remember. He remembers that the diner had been almost empty, that your boss wasn’t looking and that you had sat across from him like you were just two good friends out to share a meal. Something he had never done before.

"Sorry, I don't even know if you like sweets. I don't wanna impose, of course-"

"I-it's fine. I do." Arthur hoped you didn't notice how much his hands were shaking when he reached for the bundle. Wrapped in a blue fabric with a neatly done bow, it was soft and delicate in his hand. He stared at it and tried to control his soaring emotions. No one was ever nice to him. No one was nice to anyone in Gotham. Even though it felt like his heart was going to beat out of his chest, the would-be comedian managed to say quietly:

“Thank you.” He kept staring at the gift. Because he knew that, if he looked into your warm, kind eyes, he wouldn’t be able to control his tears. Or his laughter.

“No need to thank me. You’re the one who’s doing me a favor, to be honest.”

“Y/N !” A voice called over in the direction of the kitchen

“Well, I’ve got to run. Have a nice evening and take care, Arthur!”

“You too, Y/N.” Arthur managed to lift his gaze in time to see you walk away and wave him goodbye.

He placed the small bundle very carefully inside his bag, almost fearing it would suddenly vanish. Every time he had a new joke or funny thought in his journal, he’d write it down on a napkin and place it along with the tip on the table. He liked to close his eyes and imagine you reading it and laughing, your smile and the way your eyes would crinkle. After grabbing his coat and making sure to place the napkin and tip, he walked out of the diner and into Gotham’s night. The chilly, thin rain coming down upon the city did nothing to dampen his mood.

On his way home, he barely noticed the people around him, frowning and miserable with their bad days at work, just like he usually is. When he got home, he left his bag at the kitchen table and went to greet his mother and chat about her day like usual. He helped her bathe, dress and heated up some soup for her. But this time, he did it all with a spring in his step. Arthur felt like a kid waiting for Christmas morning. He would wait until his mother was settled in for the night because he wanted no interruptions.

After Murray’s ended and his mother went to bed, Arthur finally sat down at the kitchen table and retrieved the little gift from his bag. Pulling at the ribbon, he felt bad for ruining something so neat and delicate. The pale blue ribbon felt almost like silk between his fingers. He removed the fabric and then saw three plastic-wrapped brownie squares.

Gently, he took one and removed the wrapping. The scent overpowered him; sugar, dark chocolate and butter. A smell so delicious that it felt like he was about to eat a dessert from some of the fine, linen napkin restaurants of Gotham, reserved for the likes of Thomas Wayne and the rest of the upper crust.

Tentatively, he took the first bite. The sweetness of the sugar and the strong taste of chocolate blended perfectly in his mouth. It tasted like bliss; like the early morning sun rays streaming through the windows, bathing the kitchen in its glow while Y/N stirred ingredients in a bowl, humming to herself, moving between counters with practice and grace, almost like a dance. He couldn’t help but moan in appreciation. Before he realized it, Arthur ate the whole brownie.

Staring wistfully at the other two, he decided they were too precious to be consumed in one go. He hid them inside the cupboard, hoping his mother wouldn’t find out. Did it make him a bad person to not want to share? Maybe. He didn’t care. Those were his little treasures, and the idea of coming home and being able to taste something so good was the motivation he needed to face another shitty day.

He kept the ribbon and the piece of fabric. Let himself run his fingers through the fabric, almost as if caressing it. Brought it close to his face, pressing his cheek against it. Arthur shifted his face and brought the cloth close to his lips, almost like a kiss waiting for permission to happen.

Then another scent came. It was faint, but it was there.

Your scent. The scent of your skin. Probably some kind of body lotion that you usually frequently, mixed with your own. Your smell, combined with chocolate and other spices from your kitchen. It flooded his nostrils and danced through his lungs and veins, all the way to his heart.

He placed the cloth and the ribbon inside a small Ziploc bag he found inside one of the drawers. Too afraid of losing your smell, afraid to taint it. And then hid it alongside the brownies, even though his wish was to keep it in his coat, to always carry a little bit of you with him wherever he went.

That evening, Arthur Fleck laid down on his worn sofa with the late-night news on the TV as the only source of light in the living room. He stared at the small cracks in the ceiling, and thought about the crowded train; the citizens of Gotham stuck in their perpetual bad mood, about his malicious work colleagues, about the therapist who didn’t seem to notice he even existed. Then, he thought about what was waiting for him at home.

Arthur couldn’t help but smile.


End file.
